


Enchanted

by FayJay



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-04
Updated: 2009-05-04
Packaged: 2017-10-02 09:00:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FayJay/pseuds/FayJay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Willow has an addiction to magic, and a broken heart. Drusilla has an addiction to blood, and a heart that can't be broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enchanted

Drusilla wasn't a lady and she never had been. She hadn't known she was common until her father's money pushed them into different social circles and she heard her accent being mimicked by prettier, wealthier girls whose clothes were that little bit more modish and whose bodies were that little bit more appropriately curved. Girls who wore privilege as thoughtlessly as they did their jewels. The belated sense of her own inadequacy was another reason to retreat into her shell and cling to her sisters, and Drusilla had taken comfort in books and prayer and chaste little daydreams of a handsome prince who didn't make such nice distinctions in matters of class.

When he arrived, her handsome prince had a tongue sullied with both blood and brogue, and he terrified her beyond all imagining. He was as beautiful as any painting and he broke her almost tenderly. And viciously. And forever. His name was the perfect jest and before she died he had her kneeling. "Angelus Domini nuntiavit Drusill..." he said, and laughed. "But I recognise no master, sweetheart, so that's not right." The floor was hard and cold against her kneecaps. Blood soaked into her hem like ink into blotting paper, a cinnabar stain to remind her of the good women who had died because of this creature's savage whim, and as she opened her mouth the last traces of hope and faith melted away like snowflakes landing on a smoke stack. His fingers bruised Drusilla's narrow shoulders as she knelt to perform her orison, and her eyes were full of darkness. There was no fighting fate.

Death, when it came, was welcome. Rebirth was pure delight, and she looked back upon her former existence with pity and distaste. She had crawled like some grubby little caterpillar, but now she had beautiful rainbow wings. Drusilla had become a sharp-edged and dainty cloisonn butterfly in a dirty world, and all her former hopes and fears were meaningless. Everything was grown beautiful.

But her handsome prince already had a brazen queen, and she was not disposed to share. Angelus was an indulgent lord and master, a good daddy, a wonderful king, but he was not Drusilla's alone. The knowledge sometimes made her weep for the injustice of it all, but then she found herself a knight who was brimming with passion and potential, and for a long while her sunless world grew bright.

But all good things came to an end. The Slayer had a lot to answer for.

Drusilla felt the ripples pass through her skin as she left the club, and she paused on the threshold, sliding her fingers idly over the stonework with her head cocked to one side. For the first time in long weeks her mouth curved into a smile. The boy glanced back at her with an impatient little frown, his pulse fluttering deliciously, and pouted.

"There a problem?" he asked. His voice was shrill, but he looked like a Renaissance cherub and his hair was a dirty blond that reminded her of a boy in a London alleyway long years ago. Dru's smile broadened and she sprang lightly over the threshold, pausing barely a kiss away from him.

"Not now," she said, and ran one lacquered nail gently over his skin in a caress too faint to draw blood. "Everything's coming up roses after all." He blinked, mesmerised by her voice and the sudden force of her gaze.

"Roses?"

"Pretty red flowers with sharp little thorns." She bent forward and pressed a kiss onto the thin warm skin of his throat. Many miles to the south, the witches twisted the fabric of reality again and Drusilla shivered. It would take a day or two to get back to Sunnydale. "Come along, my little Ganymede. Mummy's thirsty."

Watching the witch was Drusilla's new hobby. Some nights she forgot, or lost interest, and wandered off to plait some pretty girl's intestines, or to listen to a new student band at The Bronze. Most nights, however, she watched the witch. She had to be careful, because the Slayer was there, and the Slayer was good. Better than good. Better than ever, in fact, and that was saying something. And there was her Spike too, to consider; successfully keeping her presence secret from her sweetheart made Drusilla bounce with smug glee and hug herself with delight at her own cleverness. And it made her heart ache unexpectedly too, especially when she saw him staring after the Slayer like some mooncalf with milk in his veins. He should have been able to feel his Drusilla watching him from the shadows; she had learned a lot from Daddy, but Spike had always known her best of all and he should have known she was there. But his head was full of metal and his heart was full of this vulgar little girl, and it seemed he had no memory of her scent.

Drusilla despised inconstancy.

But she rather liked the witch, with her chemically coloured hair and her power and her need. She was burning like a bonfire and all around her were tiny lives like birthday cake candles, weak little lights that a stray breeze would whisk away. Yet somehow all the other mortals seemed oblivious to the maelstrom of magic and anger and wanting in their midst. The other witch had an inkling, but not even she had grasped how much strength the Slayer's friend possessed. Drusilla could see right away what the problem was, and she had just the thing to cure Willow's worries in a trice. The nasty soul was getting in the way, muddying the waters and making little Willow weep. She still thought she wanted to be good, although she wasn't very good at being good. She didn't understand what she could be.

Drusilla was going to have to show her, like a good mother should.

The books smelled like dead words and bored children. Drusilla trailed all ten pale and lazy fingertips over their huddled spines as she walked between the stacks towards the witch.

"I know you're there," said Willow without turning. Dru paused. "Come one step closer and the chair-leg goes through your heart." Dru cocked her head on one side and then swivelled around on her satin shod toes. A wooden chair was hanging just behind her.

"That's not very friendly," Drusilla said reproachfully. "It's carpets that fly, silly. Not chairs."

"Drusilla?" Willow turned around at that. Dru was a little surprised by how weary the witch looked. They stared at one another. "What are you - no. No, actually, not so much with the caring." Her voice took on a hard edge. "You've kissed and made up with Spike? You're part of a travelling vampire circus? You're the new Sunnydale Avon lady? Whatever. I'm too tired for this. Just leave me alone or I'll dust you." Willow was shaking infinitesimally, and her eyes were bloodshot and shadowed. Behind her, Dru heard the chair touch down gently on the floor. "Just go away." Drusilla smiled, and an irritated expression flitted across Willow's face. "Look, missy, I've got a pencil and I'm not afraid to use it." A sharp pencil pinwheeled through the air to illustrate the point and hovered obediently over the witch's head. "You don't know what you're messing with. Leave me alone."

"You've been crying," said Drusilla, fascinated. "The Slayer made you cry. Poor baby. She doesn't trust you any more, does she?"

"Shut UP."

The pencil was suddenly poised against the front of Drusilla's dress, and Willow was on her feet and scowling.

"You're so beautiful," Drusilla observed dreamily, disregarding the slender piece of wood. Her eyes caught Willow's and wouldn't let them go. "I never noticed it before, but you're all grown up. And so powerful! It's shining out of you, like you're made of stained glass - so pretty! It was always there, underneath. I remember you. Your head was always full of words and numbers, whirling like autumn leaves on a windy day. Pretty colours. But now!" She hugged herself and shivered. "Now the power pours out of you in waves. So beautiful. Too beautiful. They're all afraid of you now, my sweet, since you hurt The Slayer's little key."

"I'm warning you," said Willow without conviction. She couldn't pull her gaze away.

"That's kind." Drusilla's fingers closed idly around the pencil and it fell unresistingly into her hand. She stepped forward once, then twice, and a third step took her right up to her quarry. "That's very kind." She brushed a stray strand of hair out of Willow's face, and Willow let her. "But it's hard being kind, sometimes. They want you to be nice all the time, don't they? And weak. They want you to be...ordinary." Willow gave a little swallowed gasp that was almost a sob. It wasn't a pretty sound. "But you aren't ordinary, Little Miss Muffet." She bounced slightly on her toes, like a small child with a delicious secret, and bent closer. And Willow, her eyes still locked on Drusilla's, let her. "You are brimming with power, fizzing with power, bristling with power. You have fire in your veins." Dru beamed, and then a moment later her face fell. "They're all scared, even your lover." She nodded sadly, and dropped her voice to a honeyed whisper. "She loved you. She just didn't love you enough." Willow made another choked sound and Dru patted her shoulder and brushed the curve of one hot cheek with the back of her hand. She was standing very close now. The library was quite still, empty or as good as empty. Willow's breathing sounded harsh and loud in the pause between words. She was trembling. "They will always leave you, you know," Drusilla told her tenderly. "But I wouldn't leave you. I would love you for ever and ever and always. We could have such fun, you and I."

"I don't want..." protested Willow, but her voice trailed away and her eyes betrayed her.

"Oh, but you do." Drusilla's eyes were huge, and she was looking at Willow like she was the only girl in the world, until Willow's protests seemed wholly hollow to them both. Dru smiled. "And you can't help it, can you? You promised them you wouldn't use magic, but you're already making the furniture dance. Don't worry, love." Her nose wrinkled in a kittenish grin. "It's a stupid promise," she said. Drusilla leaned a little closer and pressed a kiss onto Willow's forehead. "You can't resist it - and why should you? It's who you are. You're above their silly rules. They don't understand you, sweeting." She pressed a kiss onto Willow's cheek and felt the blood rushing up to the surface. She could taste the tears on Willow's skin. "But I understand, because I'm lonely too. I see what's in your heart, and it doesn't frighten me. I could adore you, my pretty witch. I could show you such things..." And she kissed the bare corner of Willow's warm mouth, feeling it open beneath her in a stifled gasp. Drusilla smiled, sweet-faced still despite the temptation to bite, and licked Willow's bottom lip before drawing back a little way. Willow's pupils were huge, her expression dazed and hungry. Beautiful. "I would give you the stars," Dru said, and her voice was wistful. "Won't you be my girl?"

And after a shocked moment, Willow found Drusilla's mouth, and kissed her right back.


End file.
